


Slice

by Glowsquid



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Blood and Injury, Brotherly Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Crying, Diego Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Gen, Good Brother Klaus Hargreeves, References to Drugs, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Stuttering Diego Hargreeves, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 21:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18019034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glowsquid/pseuds/Glowsquid
Summary: How did Diego get that scar on the side of his head?Takes place when the umbrella kids are 16.





	Slice

“Well well well, looks like I'm not the only naughty little boy up past his bedtime. What are you still doing up, Diego?” 

Diego glanced over his shoulder at who had just come in the training room. It was Klaus. He was wearing pajamas but his feet were bare. His hair was rumpled, as if he had just rolled out of bed. 

“What are you doing here, Klaus?” Diego demanded. “You should be asleep, Dad will get angry if he knows you were out.”

Klaus shrugged noncommittally “Said the pot to the kettle. Why are you still training?” 

Diego couldn't help an angry flush from coloring his cheeks. “Trying to get this set right.”

“Soooo, you're going to keep yourself down here until you get your knife ballet right?”

“It’s not ballet, but yes. Don't move.”

Diego took deep breath in, flexed his fingers, and sprang into motion. With precise, fluid motions he let his knives fly, 9 in total. First three to targets in front of him. Then, 5 to targets scattered at different positions around d him, and lastly one directly behind, flung over his shoulder and whistling past his ear to strike a target directly behind. 

Well, almost. The knife hit the wall just beside its intended target.

Letting out a grunt of frustration, Diego stalked over to each target, yanking his blades out of the wall. 

Klaus gave a slow clap. “Not bad, Diego. Now will you get your ass in bed so we don’t _both_ get in trouble?”

Diego didn’t even spare him a glance over his shoulder. 

“What’s it matter to you? Why are you even awake? You’re not exactly doing anything useful.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

If Diego noticed how his brother’s voice suddenly sounded tighter than usual, he didn’t show it. 

“Whatever. Just leave me alone, okay? I’ll go back to sleep when I get it.” He grabbed his last knife and repositioned himself in the center of the training floor, poised on the balls of his feet. 

“No can do. There’s a reason Dad doesn’t let you fighter types train alone. Who will run and get dear old dad if you hurt yourself?”

“I’m not going to hurt myself!” Diego growled, and took off again, the fluid motions of his body synchronized with each toss of a dagger. This time, each knife stuck surely in its target. But the last one - the one he threw behind him - was still shy of the bullseye. Diego huffed in annoyance and made his rounds, collecting his knives to start again. 

Klaus spoke up. “Not to pretend that I know anything, of course, but have you ever thought about, oh, I don’t know. Slowing down a bit so you can actually hit it?”

His brother flipped him off over his shoulder. “They all have to land in under 5 seconds or it doesn’t count.”

Klaus rolled his eyes. “Why do you even care? You know how good you are, it’s pretty much all you ever talk about. Since when were you so concerned with what Dad thinks? I thought you hated him!”

This got Diego’s attention. He whirled around and took a few steps towards Klaus, gesturing with his knife. 

“I don’t give a shit about Dad. I give a shit about my training. I use my skills to help people, Klaus, it's what we all do. If I can't be out there actually helping people, then there's no point in any if this.” He scoffed. “But what would you know about that, huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Klaus snarked. 

“It means, dipshit,” Diego snarled, “that you’ve never even tried. You spend more time trying to bury your gifts under edibles and Dad’s whiskey than actually using it. And yeah, don’t think I don’t know about those.” 

Klaus didn't entertain Diego's comments with a response, nor did his brother press for one, merely turning back to his knives. But on the inside, he was seething. How dare he presume to know anything about him! Maybe he should try living a day in his brain, dealing with the effect his powers had on his sanity. Maybe then Diego would have a clue what Klaus he was going through. What he had to deal with. Holding your breath and throwing knives? Sounded like a walk in the park compared to restless corpses haunting you all the time. 

But it didn't matter. He didn't owe his brother anything. So he turned and made to leave, back to wandering the empty halls of their house, trying to find something to distract him from the restless dead vying for his attention. 

It would be another lonely night. 

As he padded out of the training room he heard Diego's knives fly once more, a sudden cry of pain, and a metallic clatter.

Wait. 

Klaus whirled around and stuck his head back in the room. In the center if the floor stood Diego, knives abandoned on the floor by his feet and a stunned expression on his slack face.

At first, Klaus couldn't tell that anything was wrong with him at all. Then, blood started to pour out of the side of his head. 

“Shit!” 

He ran over to Diego, who seemed to be rooted to the spot in shock. 

“What the hell happened! Are you okay?” 

Diego didn't answer, but he lifted a shaking hand to the cut in his head, gingerly feeling the wound. He flinched at the contact and pulled back his hand, holding it up to examine the slick blood coating his palm. 

“Wait, no, don't look at it, dumbass!”

But it was too late. Klaus saw the exact moment all the color drained out of his face and his knees began to buckle. 

“Shit,” he said again. He darted forward and made it in time, guiding his brother’s descent until he was seated comfortably on the floor. 

Diego, thankfully, wasn't completely unconscious, but his eyelids were fluttering dangerously, so Klaus manhandled him until his head was resting on his knees. Diego's squeamishness about blood and needles had always been a subject of teasing and ribbing from his siblings, but Klaus wasn’t laughing now. 

“Stay awake, okay?” He patted Diego's cheek none too gently in an effort to keep him conscious. “Don't go to sleep! You're not supposed to do that with head injuries, right? Let me see.” He leaned around Diego and peered at the wound. Eesh. The knife had left a long, jagged slice and across his temple. Klaus swallowed hard. That was gonna need stitches. 

He didn’t tell Diego this. He didn’t need him passing out again. 

He heard a strangled groan from Diego, and realized his brother was trying to speak. He could see his throat working trying to squeeze out words that wouldn't come. 

“Come on, dude. Picture the word. Take it slow. What do you need?” 

“G...g- ge- get M-”

“Get Mom?” 

“Y-yeah.”

“Okay. Here, put pressure on the cut,” Klaus said and he guided Diego's hand to the gash on the side of his skull and made sure he was pressing before booking it out of the training room to find Mom. She would know exactly what to do. He spared one last look at Diego as he fled, and tried not to panic. 

That really was a _lot_ of blood. 

 

15 stitches and a thousand milligrams of acetaminophen later, Diego’s head was no longer gushing blood and he wasn’t feeling quite so woozy. Mom had done a good job stitching up his head and was currently applying gauze bandages to the cut on his temple. Klaus had long ago been shooed back to bed, but Diego would be lying out of his ass if he said he believed he actually had. 

He shouldn’t have let Klaus distract him so badly. If he had actually focused he might not have messed up and gotten hurt so. He had gotten sloppy. It was the backwards throw, the one where he threw a knife over his shoulder without looking. He knew it was a risky move by itself, but he never knew when it might come in handy, so it was worth mastering in case the need for it ever arose. 

Besides, it looked cool. 

As annoyed as he was at Klaus, he couldn’t deny that it had been nice to have him there when he had sliced his head open. Maybe he should thank him later. While he was at it, he could apologizing for saying what he had. It was mean. In all honesty, he could see how being able to talk to dead people might not be the most… fun power to have. But still, that was no excuse for throwing it away. Drugs should never be the answer to anything, no matter how many ghosts tried to talk to you. 

Which reminded him.

The Monocle was going to kill him. 

Just at that moment, the man himself strode into the infirmary, mouth twisted into the indifferent scowl he perpetually wore. 

_Speak of the Devil and he shall appear,_ he thought bitterly.

Diego knew he would have to face him at some point and explain himself, but it didn't make it any easier when his father was right in front of him, glaring down at him like Diego was an avocado he had been saving for a later, but he had waited too long and now he was too mushy. 

“Explain yourself, Number 2,” he barked. 

Diego had to force himself not to flinch away from his harsh words. “I was training.”

“At this hour? You know I do not allow such things, Number 2.”

“I was practicing the set I’ve been working on. I need to get it right to prepare for the mission tomorrow.”

“That will not be necessary anymore, Number 2.”

“I can still go-”

“How exactly did you injure yourself?”

“The backwards throw. Over the shoulder. I don’t know what happened, I guess i just-”

“Well, now that I see you are just as likely to injure yourself as the enemy,” said the Monocle, talking over him, “I see no reason why I should trust you in the field yet, do you, Number Two?”

Diego hung his head. “No, sir.”

“I see no reason why I should trust you in the field if I cannot trust you to be in bed at the proper hour, do you?”

“N-n-no, sir.”

Reginald didn’t actually roll his eyes, but he sounded like he wanted to when he said, “Good gracious. Speak to me properly, boy.”

Dammit. He couldn't take this right now. He sleep-deprived and angry and emotional, and his father wasn’t going to stop pushing until he got what he wanted. 

He wished he could reach out to mom. He wished she could help him, calm him down, pet his hair. But she was programmed to remain silent while Reginald was speaking to the children. Instead, he remembered what she always told him. _Come on, picture the word in your mind._

“S-ss…. S-sorry, sir. I'm t… t-” he cut himself off with a growl of frustration. It wasn't working. Nothing mom told him was working. It's like there was something locked inside his throat, something broken where his mind couldn't reach his voice. He shook from the tension of it, but the words still wouldn't come. 

Hargreeves sighed. “We'll speak again in the morning, Number Two, when you are in more control of your emotions. You are dismissed from all missions and training exercises until your head has healed, but you will continue your studies.” He turned to Grace. “Make sure he is put to bed.”

And with that, his father had apparently had enough of him. He made a 180 and stormed out of the room. 

Diego sighed. He felt like crying. 

He didn't care about his father. Reginald could go to hell for all he cared. Diego was his own person, he wasn't going to let the whims of a sociopathic billionaire dictate who he was.

Which is why he hated it more than anything when time after time, Reginald still made him feel so small.


End file.
